Free Unforgettable by Karin Kallmaker Page B

Gilda. Mea culpa.” • “Then I hate you,” Rett said pleasantly.
    “Anything I can do to change that?”
    Rett sucked in her cheeks. “Well-l-l-l, the body part responsible for the Gilda decision on a silver platter would be nice.”
    “Ha ha,” Jerry said in a flat tone. His expression grew mischievous. “You don’t have a silver platter big enough.” He let Rett’s scoffing protest go by, then added, “And you’d need fireplace tongs to handle it.”
    “Oh, oh, as if tweezers wouldn’t do the job.”
    “I thought you were a nice girl.”
    “I am a nice girl. A not-nice girl would have brought a knife and the platter with her.”
    They sparred and talked about the performance for the rest of the drive. It had been a while since Rett had been to San Francisco. There were more tall buildings and a new ballpark between the freeway off-ramp and the water. Fog was blowing over the hills that separated the downtown area from the ocean, making Rett glad of her jacket.
    The driver let them off at the stage door to the Fillmore. Rett had only heard about the legendary venue and was eager to see the inside. Jerry took charge of her bags and delivered them into the keeping of the dresser, who bemoaned the wrinkles in Rett’s gowns.
    She also met the woman who did hair and makeup for the featured performers. The elderly woman studied Rett for a moment, clucked with some distress and announced that she would have to think of something to fix the shape of Rett’s eyes. Rett had never noticed that the left was slightly larger than the right. She wasn’t sure she could tell now, even though it had been pointed out in no uncertain terms. The stylist muttered about her “case of the blahs” hair as she walked away, and Rett had to smile. There was nothing like backstage people to remind you that you were imperfect.
    The orchestra was in the middle of a high-energy salsa number Rett hadn’t heard before. It sounded terrific.
    Jerry drew her onto the stage as the number ended. Several of the musicians hurrahed while Henry gave her a huge hug.
    “Delightful, just delightful. I know we’ll pull this off.” Henry Connors had to be her age, Rett thought, but he still had a boyish quality that infused his music with vigor and charm. “Let’s do ‘Blue Moon’ first.”
    “I haven’t warmed up,” Rett protested.
    “Oh.” Henry looked crestfallen. “Okay, we’ll do another number. Go warm up.”
    Four minutes, Rett thought, at the most. Stage right was deserted, so she ducked into a dark corner and sang scales in half and full voice. She shook her arms to release tension and felt a quiver of nerves. Pedal to the metal, she reminded herself. This is what it’s all about. This is what makes you a professional.
    “It’s going to sound a little tight because I didn’t have time for breathing exercises,” she warned Henry. She glanced at the well-lit house. The ceiling soared to allow for two balconies. The concave structure had fabulous acoustics.
    “Don’t waste full voice if you need to keep it for tonight.”
    “I’ll take it easy,” she promised. She liked the old-fashioned, oversized standing microphone Henry preferred. It set the mood of an earlier era. Portable mikes left her wondering what she should do with her feet, and the power pack on her back always rubbed the wrong way.
    The stage manager pointed out her entrance and mark. A sorrowful clarinet heralded the number and Rett let herself sway into the slow rhythm. She’d learned over the years that singing an old standard like ‘Blue Moon’ only pleased a crowd when they heard what they expected. The opening verse she presented in straightforward style, every note true and on beat.
    A soulful clarinet solo bridged back to her entrance, accompanied by glittering guitar. She recognized Cleetus Washington’s golden touch immediately. She took more liberties with the phrasing, keeping an eye on Henry the whole time. At one point he emphasized a